


You Know What You Do To Me

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Gift Fic, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stella and Ray indulge in some D/s sex.  A good time is had by all (mostly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know What You Do To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts).



> A belated gift for Seascribe. Once upon a time you said you wanted something like this. Hope you still do! :)

“All right,” says Stella. Her voice is firm but there’s a gleam in her eyes that’s part play, part sex. “You need to work on being patient, so here’s what we’re going to do. You’re not going to touch me anywhere except my breasts, until I say so. You got that?”

“Got it,” says Ray.

And there are about a billion reasons why he’s a lucky son-of-a-bitch to have managed to get this woman interested in him and _keep_ her interested, but this, right here, is up there near the top of the list. Because Stella gets it, about Ray and sex. He doesn’t want leather and whips and cuffs. He doesn’t want to be tied down, or tied up, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to get hurt _._ He doesn’t want to play dress-up or call anybody _mistress._ He just wants a smart, beautiful woman to tell him what to do to make her happy, and to reward him when he gets it right.

So, right now, he gets to work on her breasts, just like she said. She’s still wearing her nightie, a little piece of silky summer nothing, so first, he breathes on her nipples through the fabric. She gives him a little encouraging sigh, settling back against the pillows with her hands behind her head, giving him room to play.

She wants this drawn out, so he starts by just tweaking the edges of the cloth so that it slides back and forth across her nipples, which are already visible bumps. When he glances up at her face, she’s smiling, but she looks more amused than turned on. So he moves on to step two, cupping his hands around her breasts to coax them back into roundness—they’re small enough to flatten down to almost nothing when she’s lying down. He strokes a little with his thumbs as he mouths her nipples through the fabric, which earns him an approving “Mm.”

Once the silky stuff is wet, though, it sticks to her skin and he can’t do much with it. Stella obligingly arches so he can slide the nightie up her body, over her arms, which she stretches in a ballet-like pose. With her bare body displayed right under his hands like that, crying out to be stroked and petted and nibbled, he almost forgets—but no, his orders are not to touch. Nothing except her breasts. He cups them again with both hands, ducks his head to lick between them.

Stella chuckles—she doesn’t miss a trick, probably knows exactly what he was just thinking, there. But she doesn’t call him on it.

“That’s good, Hon, keep going.” Her voice is warm and fond.

Ray covers her left breast in whisper-kisses, then the right. He gets so caught up in the detail—touching her as lightly as he can, making sure he doesn’t leave any bit of skin un-kissed—that he loses track of how long he’s been at it. Until Stella shifts under him, just a little, but enough that her nipple slides between his lips. He’s managed to make her impatient! He’d grin at that, except he’s got a job to do and it requires pursing his lips.

He suckles, gently, gently, like a kiss in reverse. As he switches from one nipple to the other, he takes a second to admire them: dark rose crowns on the pale slopes of her breasts, peaked hard from his attention. From wanting him. He takes her other nipple into his mouth, sighing his pleasure, hoping she can feel how much he loves her.

“Harder,” she says, so he sucks harder, bringing his tongue into the action. Stella’s making little noises now, not quite moans, and he can feel her hips moving down there next to his.

“No, harder, really. It’s okay. I can’t really feel it yet. Go on, don’t worry, I won’t let you hurt me. I’ll tell you when to stop." 

He obeys. She’s got this covered; she’ll keep him on track. He massages her nipple with his tongue, sucks hard. Dares to bite a little—and she groans aloud.

“Yes, that’s it, good, like that.”

He groans too, taking as much of her into his mouth as he can, then releasing her flesh to nuzzle between her breasts. He’s got five o’clock shadow; the prickle makes her hiss, but she doesn’t tell him _Stop._ She’s squirming now, and he can feel her heartbeat light and fast under his cheek. Like a bird’s heart—Stella’s like a bird, light and delicate and graceful, but that’s just her body. Inside, she’s a lioness (bringing down the kill, calling the shots for the other lions—he saw some nature special once—he’d roll over and show his belly for her; he’d do it now, only that’s not what she told him to do.).

She takes his hand and positions his first two fingers, not _on_ her clit but resting right above it. She moves his fingers in a slow, soft circle, once, twice, then lets go and lays back on her pillow, leaving him to continue the motion on his own.

“Now, be careful,” she tells him, watching him through half-closed eyes. “Don’t let me come. Not unless I say so.”

Slow circles, slow and gentle, his fingers sneaking down a little further between her folds each time she sighs and rocks her hips up. He dips down where she’s wet, gets his fingers slick so they can slide more easily. At first she’s giving him languid little noises of approval that warm his cheeks and send tingles through his groin. But then she hisses, “More. Faster,” and he obeys, and suddenly she’s clutching at him, well-kept nails pricking his back just a little as her thighs clench and her heels dig into the bed. He plants two fingers on either side of her clit and vibrates his hand, making her whimper in the back of her throat. He watches, amazed like he always is at her beauty and the fact that he’s the one who’s giving this to her, who’s _allowed_ to. . .

“Stop stop stop!” she gasps. Her body’s still arching and rocking, telling him _go go go_ , but he obeys the words and takes his hand off her. She’s glistening with sweat; smiling like an angel on a bender as she breathes deeply and relaxes down onto the bed.

“Mm, good work. Come kiss me.”

He does. Her tongue slides between his lips, slowly the first time, then rhythmically, again and again, gently fucking his mouth until he can barely breathe. She keeps it up as she guides his hand back to her crotch. Kissing him, claiming him, filling him.

She ramps up faster, this time. She’s moaning into his mouth and he’s moaning back, both of them panting like animals and trying to keep kissing, except they keep having to pull away to gasp for breath, and it’s ragged and sloppy and wet and so good he can hardly stand it. It’s all he can do to keep his fingers moving—not too hard, she doesn’t like it when he presses real hard—speeding up in spite of himself, following the rhythm of her wild breathing. She gives a series of sharp, high cries, and it’s too fucking much—he can’t hang on—he’s going to burst apart, a hot, gooey mess—if they can go together, if she can take him with her, he just wants—

She grips his hand hard, stopping it in place. She’s hot and wet against his fingers, against his mouth. He’s shaking on the edge, needing release but needing more not to blow this now. He forces himself to lie absolutely still and just watch the frown between her eyebrows smooth out and her shoulders stop heaving as her breath slows again. He feels his own breathing sync with hers, making him a little less crazy.

Her eyes open and stare into his. He fights the instinct to close his own; instead, he lets her look. He wonders what she’s looking for, what she sees in there. Whether it’s good enough. . .and then she smiles, tender and possessive, and his heart leaps in his throat.

“Okay,” she whispers, her lips just barely not touching his. “All the way this time.”

She lets go of his wrist. He crooks his fingers, straightens them, then repeats the gesture, barely moving at all, but she tenses instantly. She grabs his other wrist, the one he’s using for balance, and clutches it hard as she buries her face in his shoulder. He moves his fingers again, and she’s arching up into him, groaning deep from her chest. Her hips spasm hard, again and again in an irregular rhythm. Every time she jerks against his cock, a wave of lust rushes through him, but he manages to keep still and just hold her as she shudders through it.

When she finally relaxes, he lays her out on her back and covers her with kisses—throat, collarbone, cleavage, the curves of her breasts and the curves of her shoulders. She didn’t say to do that, but she’s also not telling him to stop, and he knows it’s her favorite way to come down after an orgasm.

After a while, she rolls him over onto his back and smiles down at him like a cat with a mouth full of feathers.

“You deserve a reward for all that,” she tells him, and pauses, her head tilted to one side, her eyes on his face. It sounds like an invitation for him to speak up, but he can’t, and they both know it. So he waits, curling his fingers into loose fists so he can’t give in to the impulse to reach out and caress her soft, bare skin.

“Put your hand on your cock,” she says—and this is another thing he loves about her, that in the right context, she can talk as filthy as you please, like it’s perfectly natural for her. His cock jumps at the word, and jumps again at the touch of his palm.

“Stroke yourself.”

He does, just once, looking down at his hand because he’s not sure he can do it if he sees her watching. The jolt of pleasure is a shock, because God, yes, he’s ready, he’s way past ready, he’s aching to be touched. It makes him gasp, which makes his face burn hot with embarrassment. But all right, whatever, he’s past that and waiting for her next order.

But what she says next is, “Keep going,” and Jesus, if he was blushing before, he must be red as a stop sign now. He tries to follow the instruction, he _tries,_ but he can’t get his hand to move. Not with her watching him like that. Not with someone _watching._

Stupid, _stupid,_ he’s faced down mobsters, jumped onto moving trains, he’s _shot_ people when he had to, he’s a grown man and he’s alone in his own bedroom with his own _wife,_ who he loves, who loves him and just wants this simple thing from him, just this stupid little thing, and he can’t even move his hand on his own damn cock to please her, because you don’t, you never, not where someone might see. He’s burning with shame, now; humiliated and shaking, trying to hold it together at least that last little bit; trying not to fall apart in front of her, on top of everything else; trying to get his damn hand to _move,_ damn it.

And even though Stella was an only child and grew up in a house where even parents knocked on their kids’ doors before barging in, she _gets_ it.

“It’s all right,” she says. Her small, strong hand touches him between the shoulderblades, then on the back of the head. “There’s no one here to see. Just me. And you want me to see. Don’t you?” She leans in—warm breath on his cheek, warm hand on his close-shaved skull—and nibbles his earlobe, first gently, then not so gently, and a spark of arousal shoots through him, making his hand jerk, which sets off more sparks, that familiar hot tingling, so good, better with each stroke—

“Ooohh,” he moans, and her mouth fastens onto his like she wants to drink the sound out of him, and his hand starts going even faster. But she puts her hand on top of his as she pulls her face away again.

“Not too fast,” she murmurs. Her smile is almost tender, this time. “Take it easy. It’s not your turn to come, yet. I’ll tell you when.”

Disappointment tightens his gut just for a second, but she’s right: it’s not like he wants this to _end._ He takes a breath and slows down his strokes, which only dials the pleasure back for a couple of seconds, until he notices that woah, yeah, slow feels _good_ , slow is almost better than fast. Which is something that he always forgets, but mmm, yeah, his thighs are tightening and his heart is hammering and the need is building, building, his whole body drawing together and straining towards—

A hand grips his wrist; his own hand instinctively stops what it’s doing. He moans in protest—okay, maybe it’s more like a whine—and somewhere above him, Stella laughs.

“That’s enough.” Her voice is full of that laughter, but it’s the warm kind, nothing mean about it. Like a little kid chasing soap bubbles, only lower and much, much more X-rated. She pulls his hand away from his dick; he doesn’t resist. Then both her hands are on his face, and she’s kissing him, her tongue thrusting between his lips, in and out, in and out, a languid but steady fuck.

He leans back and she follows, until he flops down on his back with Stella on top of him. If she’s annoyed with him for taking the initiative, she lets it slide—punishment is not either of their thing—and just climbs right up and makes herself at home on his cock.

He bucks up involuntarily. She laughs and shakes her head, planting both hands on his chest, pinning him to the mattress. She’s tiny, and he’s combat-trained; he could throw her off easy if he wanted to. But he feels like he can’t move. He’s pinned by her self-assurance, her decisiveness, her desire.

“You want to fuck me, Ray?”

She knows just what the language does to him, and her no-nonsense tone, her serious face looking down at him. He moans; can’t help himself. But this is a test, and he doesn’t know what the right answer is. Does she want him to say _yes,_ admit that he’s dying for it, beg her to give it to him? Or does she want him to hang on and show her how patient he can be, even when she’s torturing him with temptation?

And now he’s hesitated too long; she’s frowning, _oh God_ , he can’t disappoint her, not now, _please God, please Stella—_

“Please,” he whispers. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for, he just needs—he needs—

“Please what?” Her eyes never leave his face as she slides up his cock, clenching, and back down. Just that once, but there’s his cue— _thank you thank you—_

“Please let me fuck you. Please, babe, Stella, please can I—ooohh. . .” Because now she’s moving again— _yes!_ —slow and strong, hot and wet and so, so good, just what he needs, drawing him in tight, everything tingling and clutching and building, sweeping him up, almost there, almost—

“Not yet, remember,” she croons as she rocks up and down, torturing him so sweetly. “Not ‘till I say you can. Hang on for me, sweetheart. You can be patient for me, can’t you?”

He wants to say _yes_ —tries to say it, but all that comes out of his mouth is a gasping groan, and the pleasure is building up too fast, tightening his groin and making his back arch and his limbs tremble, and _shit, fuck,_ he’s in trouble. He clutches at the bed, which is the wrong thing to do, he knows he’s got to relax his muscles, breathe slow, calm down, but Stella’s so hot and wet and welcoming around him, so strong and glorious above him, and every move she makes sets him on fire and he can’t, he can’t—

“Please,” he chokes out. She gets it instantly and holds still. But it’s not enough, too late, he’s cresting, falling, can’t hold back, and he squeezes his eyes tight in shame.

Her fingers on his cheek; her voice soft and clear above him.

“Go ahead. It’s okay. I want you to.”

She clenches tight around him as he thrusts up into her, shaking apart with stars bursting behind his squinched-shut eyelids. When he cries out, she drops softly down to cover him like a blanket, murmuring in his ear, “Yes, there you go, sweetheart, I love you, that was so good, I love you so much. . .”

Stella doesn’t lie to him, he knows that for sure. It makes her not the easiest person to live with sometimes, but it’s high on the list of things he loves her for. She holds him down with her solid weight and her confidence so he can’t roll away, curl up and hide; and she soothes him with words he has to believe _: . . .great job. . .so good. . .love you. . ._

Until finally he’s able to roll her to the side and settle her in his embrace with her head resting on his chest, her damp hair tickling his nose and mouth. They’re both limp: a pair of warm, wet noodles melting together, heartbeats gradually ticking down.

“Not too bad, huh?” His voice comes out kind of wobbly, but Stella just giggles into his chest. (That giggle is another thing he loves about her, because she’d rather die than do it in public; but she does it with _him._ )

“Not too bad,” she agrees. “Have to do it again sometime.”

“Anything you say,” he promises, and “That’s right,” she promises right back.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of ambivalent about M/F sexual power play, but look, I've written it anyway. What is fic for if not to experiment?


End file.
